Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Jigsaw breaks into harsh laughter, and I grin at him.
“Anyway,” I continue, “it examined whether female serial killers kill as a response to violence and oppression they’ve experienced or if it’s a challenge to patriarchal structures in society.”
“That was a lot of big words all in a row,” he says with an amused smile. “What was her conclusion?”
I pull a tattered magazine from a stack on one of the bottom shelves and flip to the page I marked with a red tab.
“Well, honestly, I thought it was mostly navel-gazing nonsense wrapped in a lot of academic buzzwords,” I say, glancing at the notes I’d scribbled in the margins. “She tried so hard to sound neutral and intelligent, that she forgot to actually make a point.”
He bursts into laughter. “Jesus, that describes her perfectly.”
I glare at him, still annoyed he seems to know this woman so well.
“Anyway,” I say, voice crisp, “I only kept it because—” I shoot him a wicked smirk. “The subject matter is obviously close to my heart.”
He flashes an amused grin. “Obviously.”
He holds out his hand, and I pass him the magazine, already open to the article.
“She had a few decent points,” I admit. “That violence can be empowering and how women kill for different reasons and use different methods than men.”
He glances at the article, flipping through the pages but only stopping to squint at my notes. “Well, if you’d like to have her autograph it for you, she’ll probably be at the clubhouse this weekend. Downstate.” He snorts. “Rock would skin us alive if we brought her to Upstate’s clubhouse.”
“No, I don’t want her autograph.” I snap the magazine out of his hand and tuck it back on the shelf.
When I turn, he’s watching me with that unreadable look of his. The one that sees more than I want him to.
“I meant what I said.” He holds my gaze. “I’m not a fan. It’s just work.”
“Some work,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. “Would you like me working with naked dudes all the time?”
His lips twist into a playful grin. “You kinda do.”
“They’re dead. It’s not the same!”
He reaches for me, and I let him pull me into the chair with him again. My body against his, the warmth of his arms, the steady beat of his heart—it settles some of my unease. But not all of it.
“So, were you just never going to tell me about this?”
He sighs and runs his fingers over my hair. “To be honest, I hadn’t worked on the site in a while. But something came up, and Hustler needed me to fix it. I knew you’d find out eventually. I wasn’t sure how to bring up the subject, though.”
I lift my head and find nothing but sincerity in his eyes. My nose wrinkles. “Yeah, I guess it’s an awkward subject to approach. I already knew your club owns a strip club. Tacking on ‘Oh, and we produce porn too,’ might’ve been a bit much.”
He nods and blows out a breath. “She dances too sometimes. But like this high-brow artsy stuff.”
“Awww.” I pull a mock sad face. “She doesn’t rip off her clothes and grind her bits on customer’s faces?”
“No.” He shakes with laughter.
“How rude of her.” Now, I kind of feel bad that I made fun of the woman’s article. And I don’t want to feel bad for a woman my boyfriend’s seen naked multiple times apparently.
“Can we not talk about this anymore,” I say, resting my head on his chest again.
“Yes, pleeease.” His voice rumbles through his chest, followed by a dramatic sigh that makes his whole body sink beneath me. “I’d rather talk about literally anything else.”
My brain won’t stop turning over the situation, though. If she’s the club’s “biggest earner,” whatever that means, he won’t be able to walk away from working with her as easily as he makes it sound.
Not when his loyalty to his club is stitched into every part of him—even the parts I wish were just mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jigsaw
Now that Margot knows about the club’s porn empire, I might as well take her to a party downstate. Not exactly a dream date, but it’s been a relief not having to hide that detail from her any longer.
“So what are they celebrating tonight?” she asks, settling herself into the passenger side of my truck. She carefully gathers the skirt of her dress—black with big, splashy blue flowers—and drapes it over her knees. Shiny blue heels. Matching cardigan. The whole look is pure class, way too refined for the kind of party we’re headed to. But the second I saw her, I lost the ability to say a damn word. The dress hugs her in all the right places, especially that low neckline teasing the soft swells of her tits. Made me want to bury my face in her cleavage and say fuck the party.